


I'd love to be loved by you

by dykejaskiers



Series: Gobblepot Holiday High Jinks 2019 [7]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon Universe, First Meetings, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Romance, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, well.... for them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:14:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21768940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dykejaskiers/pseuds/dykejaskiers
Summary: Growing up, Oswald’s mother had a habit of cooing to her son about soulmates.Ah, but when you know, you know, Oswald – everything, it will be in bloom, color, you’ll see, Oswald, you will see what I mean. I know this.It goes a little like that.
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot/Jim Gordon
Series: Gobblepot Holiday High Jinks 2019 [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1559254
Comments: 9
Kudos: 65





	I'd love to be loved by you

**Author's Note:**

> Had a bit of a break because I got sick and also uni happened but now we're back with _all_ the clichés!
> 
> Title taken from Did you see me coming? by Pet Shop Boys because I'd lay down my life for them (a potential title from the same song would've been "I think I'm starting to believe in fate / because it delivered you"), and also my tumblr(s) are at queergordon and wesleywyndcm!

Growing up, Oswald’s mother had a habit of cooing to her son about soulmates. _Ah, but when you know, you know, Oswald – everything, it will be in bloom, color, you’ll see, Oswald, you will see what I mean. I know this_.

And perhaps – almost certainly – she had expected it to be a nice girl from next door. The lady who bagged their groceries. Maybe even the taxi driver who shot Oswald a glare through the rear-view mirror as his mother whispered, _it is not fit for a woman to do this. Yours will be a proper lady, Oswald –_ the way she pronounced his name had always been curious, so different from the way kids spat it at him in school – _a proper lady, with a respectable job._

Other people told him – no, the world wasn’t in monochrome. There were colors – and although Oswald didn’t really understand, he liked the sound of that. Something vibrant, people said. Beautiful. Like a yellow flower in bloom, or the muted shades of stained church windows, shining in red and green and blue. Beautiful, and precious–

But the first time Oswald sees in color, it’s a splatter of deep red blood landing on top of his black shoes. Well – the actual first time is the eye color of the man staring (scowling, really) at him across the rainy and wet back alley, and then the pale of his skin, the tie that matches his eyes – Oswald doesn’t know the name for the color yet, but it’s blue, like the sky, or sadness, or the _police_ –

It’s his mother’s voice that whispers the word in his ear, disdainfully. Oswald drops the bat he’s holding, faintly aware of the clatter it makes. The police. A policeman. A man.

Well. Of course. But Mother will be disappointed.

And then a thought–

 _She won’t know_.

Later, Oswald will know that his name is James Gordon, and he’s a detective, and he’s new in town – but now, all that he knows is that there’s a man staring at him, and he _knows_. Oswald knows that he knows, because as their eyes meet, the scowl transforms into something else, something half curious and half terrified. Oswald would be terrified, too. But it’s the curiosity that has him rooted in place as the man approaches, his fingers curling around his weapon. 

Oswald’s not sure what's said, in those moments in between their eyes meeting and the first words. He remembers glancing down at his shoes – and there, blood, the scent of it familiar but now it has a _look_ – and his shoelaces are black, and his socks are white, and the asphalt is glimmering with the bright hues reflected from the lights around, pink and blue and orange. 

They were all right – it is beautiful. 

“Who are you?”

Oswald looks up, into blue eyes. “Me, I’m- I'm nobody,” he says. For now. “I’m the umbrella boy.”

The man swallows, his gaze boring into Oswald’s. “Uh-huh. What’s your name?”

“Oswald,” he says. “Oswald Cobblepot.”

The man looks away, down at the bat and the bloodied man and then at Butch, who’s too busy trying not to laugh or smack the man beside him to notice anything’s amiss. “Detective Gordon, GCPD.” His eyes return to Oswald. “I–”

But someone calls for him from inside, and after a moment’s hesitation, Detective Gordon is gone.

Mrs. Kapelput doesn’t know. If she notices – that Oswald sometimes stares too long out the window, watches the switching traffic lights with newfound interest – if she notices any or all of it, she never says. Oswald knows she’s always liked oblivion better; to her, ignorance is bliss.

But he wants to tell, he wants to tell everyone he comes across – there’s so _much_ to the world, now that he sees more, now that he has–

Detective Gordon.

Oswald goes to see him a week later, finds him sitting at his desk with another man, both drinking coffee with dissatisfied expressions. It’s Gordon who notices him first. He looks up, frowns – then recognition sparks, and he shifts into a neutral look, almost bored, but so calculated that it can’t be. 

“Cobblepot,” he says, which prompts the other man to turn around, and lift a brow.

“Who’s this?” He asks, eyeing Oswald, who has little patience and even less time. 

“Detective Gordon,” he greets, eyeing _him_ and ignoring the other one – who now turns his curious look towards Gordon. “We should talk.”

Gordon gives the other man a look that Oswald can’t read, and after a brief moment, nods. “Over here,” he says, and leads them to a quieter corner. 

_Quieter_ inside the station doesn't mean much. Oswald leans his weight against his umbrella, sighing. 

“Who _are_ you?” Gordon asks, at the same time as Oswald says, “What’s your first name?”

They blink at each other.

Then–

“James. Jim.”

Oswald nods, satisfied. “Hello, James.”

Jim looks at him; the curiosity has doubled since the last time, the horror diluted. “Oswald,” he says, carefully. “Why– nevermind. What do you want?”

What _does_ he want? Oswald wants quite a few things. He wants control, he wants power, he wants _influence_ , he wants…

“A friend,” is what comes out of his mouth. “A friend, James, I– I think you could use a friend in this city, too.”

Jim rolls the thought over in his mind. His tie has little red checkers in it. Oswald notes details down, catalogues everything in his mind. Heading: Gordon, James. Subheading: Oswald's– well.

Remains to be seen.

“And what does that mean?” Jim asks. “Being your friend.”

 _What do I have to do_ , he means. _What do I sacrifice?_

Oswald gives a delicate shrug. “I don’t know what it means, James. Everything, and nothing.”

Jim purses his lips, looks like he’s about to tell Oswald to run off and preferably stay away, but then– “Okay.”

“Okay,” Oswald echoes. He has pressing matters, but he shakes Jim's hand and lets the touch linger. He smiles. “Until next time, then, James.”

He’s limping away when Jim calls after him, “I like the color of your umbrella.”

Oswald glances down at the purple thing. Jim’s partner – Oswald assumes that is who he is – looks at the umbrella, then at Oswald, then at Jim, who looks defiant. 

Oswald grins. “Thank you. Your tie matches your shirt well.”

And then he’s off, leaving a brewing argument and the beginning of something in his wake.


End file.
